The Meeting Of Two Friends
by AilciA
Summary: Aragorn and Legolas first meeting. A band of Mirkwood warriors, attempting to warn Rivendell of an attack, are ambushed far from it's borders and struggle to reach the safety of the Last Homely House... New Chapter added October 11.
1. Idleness of Youth

A/N: Why hello there. This is the long-absent AliciA speaking.

Look, here's the deal: I wanted to write a story about Aragorn and Legolas' first meeting, and already had in mind a pretty good plot... however, I've got these nast, evil exams starting next week that go on for about a month... but I couldn't wait to post this chapter.

So I was hoping you'd all trust me enough to give you this first chapter now, then stick with me for about a month, when I'll get started on the story for real... okay?

Please read, and let me know what you think. Cheers!

* * *

Aragorn stifled a yawn and stretched out lazily, cradled in the boughs of a great beech tree close to the border of Rivendell's large gardens. Distant sounds of many waterfalls lulled him, and the peaceful sunshine soothed him. 

He knew Elladan and Elrohir were going to find him - it was only a matter of time with elves, and he hadn't chosen a particularly good hiding place - but he was not about to go fretting about it: he thought he might as well enjoy the glorious sunshine in the hazy summer Imladris was experiencing.

This was the life for him: ten summers old and he felt like he ruled the worlds. His father was a King - or at least, as close as: Elrond was just as powerful... if not more so... than any of the other realm-leaders. This made him a **prince**. The idea was very appealing to him, and his young mind had always been rather taken with it. He couldn't begin to imagine how good it would be not to have to do anything people told you to do - if he was a real prince, he'd be able to do just as he pleased. Like sit in this tree all day...

"AH-HAAA!"

Suddenly, Aragorn was rudely thrown from his place of rest. He hurtled towards the ground before deftly being caught again just before he hit its surface.

He glared up into the beaming face of the younger twin, who held him in his strong arms only in inches from the earth beneath them. "Elrohir, that's not fair! I wasn't expecting it!" He whined slightly, something he rarely did, for he was upset at not being able to enjoy his daydream of being a prince any longer.

Elrohir laughed musically, light dancing in his deep blue eyes, "Correct me if I'm wrong, young one, but is that not sort of the point of hide-and-seek?" He set the bossy little mortal down gently on the ground and ruffled Estel's wild black curls: he loved the human with all his heart, and considered him very much a brother, as close as if with blood.

"Ah, who cares - when I'm King, I'll abolish the game anyway," Estel grinned cheekily, beginning to head back towards the house.

The dark-haired elf started in surprise, black eyebrows shooting skywards: did Estel know of his lineage after all? Surely their father hadn't told him already, that he was destined to rule the mortal world - he was still a child, for Valar's sake!

"Whatever do you mean, Estel?" Elrohir asked innocently, voice a bit too light, starting to walk once more.

But the young human didn't notice this - too busy simulating a fight with a nearby elderberry bush... great fun until his 'sword', a large stick he'd found, broke unexpectedly. He looked at it mournfully, bitterly disappointed.

"Mmmm? Oh, sorry - I was just thinking it'd be great to be able to tell everyone what to do, and get what you want all the time... I promise, I'm not being greedy, Elrohir," Estel was at pains to make this clear, not being able to bear the idea of his elven brother thinking less of him. "I just think it'd be great to be a prince, is all."

Elrohir mentally sighed in relief. Estel does not know.

Then he chuckled, mind filled with the smiling image of a certain, golden-haired elven prince he knew, and his face if he could hear the human's talk, "I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you, child."

He knew Prince Legolas of Mirkwood would probably shave off all his hair if it meant he were able to give up his royal position, the amount of trouble it had caused him over the years. All the disagreements with his father, that time when he was kidnapped and tortured by a mad exiled elf who wanted revenge on King Thranduil, let alone the fact Legolas had found it incredibly hard to be thought of as a warrior in his own right. All Legolas wanted to do was be a warrior for his father's kingdom: he abhorred the diplomatic and political side of princehood.

Estel, however, did not seem too convinced, and would not have his dreams dashed so easily. "No, I'm serious: when stories speak of real princes, they are always valiant, kind to their subjects, brilliant and..." Here the child stopped uncertainly.

"And what, Estel?" prompted Elrohir, intrigued.

The child blushed slightly, looking down at his feet unexpectedly, "Well, you know... handsome and the like."

Elrohir kept his laughter in check, feeling it would do the boy's pride no good if he laughed at him, something Estel in particular hated, "You don't say? And you wish to be like this, do you?"

"No..." Estel replied, a little sullenly. "It's just something to think about, really."

The tall elf beside him nodded silently, and smiled to himself as the pair approached the resting figure of Elrond's other twin.

But what Estel didn't know was that he'd encounter a 'real prince' very soon... though unfortunately not in the nicest of circumstances: Estel was to learn the very real truth of being a very real prince.

* * *

A/N: There you have it, the beginning of my latest tale... I'm off now to write an essay on political extremism in Britain in the 1930s and, just for fun, one on the poetry of John Donne. Wish me luck. Please. 

Also, please review and let me know what you think. Also, if you put me on your author alert, you'll know when the next chapter comes up in about a month. Sorry again for the delay etc. Speak to ya'll soon!


	2. Careless Talk

A/N: Hello all.

Yes, I am aware this is earlier than I told you all it would be - but you won't believe the lengths I will go to avoid much needed revision! I have eight exams next week, so you are very lucky to have this update so soon... if I wasn't such a bad student with incredibly poor motivational skills, you wouldn't have heard from me!

Anyway, in this chapter you meet a few new elves, although you might have come across them in some of my other stories - I have collected a band of characters for Mirkwood, and I tend to use the same ones over and over again. Hopefully it's not confusing, and the characters are necessary and, I hope, likeable and funny... when you review you have to tell me what you think of them okay?

viggomaniac: I am trying to get Estel to sound as much like a real ten year old as possible - there needs to be some sort of balance to all the inevitable elvish mischief in these sorts of stories - so I appreciate your comments very much. Keep reviewing and let me know when I'm going wrong!

Templa Otmena: Wow - you're still with me! Very pleased. I've always thought there's a great deal of arrogance in young children - it's only really in your rather late teens when you begin to realise that, hey, the world really doesn't revolve around you after all (and some people not even then)! It's what makes children so cool, I think: they're incredibly bloody-minded... if my little sister is anything to go by. And yes, much angst ahead indeed.

Beth: How dare you neglect the duties of a Legolas fan! I am ashamed: to think I dedicated an entire story to you once upon a time! On the other hand, if you're going to switch characters on me, good choice with Elladan!

So that's enough avoiding revision - I have to go now and have a mental breakdown. See you later!

* * *

The forest near to Rivendell's vast borders seemed almost to twinkle with the bright summer sunshine that drifted under the canopy of vivid green leaves. The beautiful flora gave no hint to the danger that was approaching, fast on the heels of the group of swift and fair immortals that sprinted silently underneath the boughs of the mighty trees. 

A terrible number of orcs were preparing themselves to march on the unsuspecting Imladris within a day or two: they longed awfully to burn it to the ground, uproot the trees that grew there, drown all the wildlife in the many waterfalls, and have their fun with the disgusting elves that lived there.

After nearly a week of attempting to invade the land of the Woodland King, and being thwarted each and every time by steadily tiring Silvans, the individual groups of orcs, all sent seperately from their stronghold in Mirkwood and abroad, had eventually organised themselves into one devastating task force, and were making their way across to the West, focused so as they could feel the ripping of sweet elven flesh under their claws and drink the heady liquor of their blood, something the Woodland elves tended to deny them.

Rivendell's only hope and warning lay with these five elves, already battered, bloody and near-exhausted from the fights they had endured at home, sent on a mission by the King to warn their kin in the West of the approaching tide of evil. They had been running for three days, and their strong stamina was beginning to wane.

"By the Valar, I shall be glad of our rest, when we get it," came a quiet murmur, as fluid as water, from one immortal to another.

Such a thing was not often said amid the company of elves, and most especially between Mirkwood elves, but these two particular elves had known one another for a very long time indeed... and, if nothing else, they spoke very quietly... lest they be overheard.

Fienngil, Second Prince of Mirkwood, smiled tiredly in answer at the tall stealth warrior who ran alongside him. "Peace, Maegathir. You know as well as I the urgency of our information for Rivendell - the King would rather face ten Balrogs than see the Last Homely House overrun with orcs as in our land."

He paused, grey-blue eyes flickering ahead of him to latch onto the blond-headed leader of the racing group, and they twinkled unexpectedly. "Besides, we don't want _him_ to think we are becoming too old and cumbersome to keep up with him... we'd never hear the end of it!"

The elder elf chuckled deeply, though it sounded more like a grunt than anything resembling mirth, "No indeed, Your Highness."

For the leader of the group at that moment was the young Legolas Greenleaf, youngest of the princes of Mirkwood. Determined to get to Rivendell in time to save friends who lived there, he strode out yards ahead of the rest of the contingent, strength burning in his green eyes, pure stubborness powering his legs and his golden hair flaming out behind him.

Yet, even with his goal of reaching Lord Elrond's home before nightfall, he understood his colleagues and himself needed to stop for a while, and soon, for his legs were beginning to falter ever so slightly and the elves were already injured in one way or anpther from previous battles in Mirkwood.

And so it was that the group reached a small clearing, and Legolas held up one slender hand to call a halt, much to the relief of his companions, and they all let themselves go tiredly.

Fienngil clapped his brother on the shoulder as they sat down together on a large tree stump, "Very good today, Legolas... you led with as much ease as if you had been a warrior of the Age of Gil-Galad."

"I wouldn't be telling him that, my prince, else his head swells: you know what he's like," laughed Tauredal, a fair-headed Captain of Forces, and a close friend of both the princes. He rubbed absently at a dark bruise on his cheek from where an orc had struck him the day before, and grinned throug his wince.

Though Mirkwood was run a great deal on heirarchy and formalities between warriors, lords and the Royal House, the Royal Children (and especially these two princes) were well known to prefer natural conversation, and those who had known them longest could easily forget their status entirely... something the Royals appreciated greatly.

Legolas shot him a mock-glare, then grinned, greatfully accepting the water-skin handed to him by his faithful guard Abrome. He pulled his chin up, and threw his mane of golden hair over his shoulder theatrically, "It's just I recieve _so many_compliments these days from my elders: I have a hard time keeping my increasing happiness under control... that must be why you, Tauredal, never have such a trouble with keeping your pride in check?"

"Well met, my lord," laughed the captain, conceding defeat before he bit into a wafer of lembas, stretching his tired legs out before him and leaning his weary back against a welcoming tree trunk.

Maegathir, eldest elf of them all shook his dark head, as he set himself cross-legged on the ground to the left, gunting at the pain in his left knee, "Foolish young ones."

Legolas' sharp ears caught this, and he smiled at the predictability of the grumpy warrior's comment - he had grown up with such chides ringing in his pointed ears, and he was practiced enough to realise such words were not meant harshly. Rather, Maegathir had always had trouble expressing his fondness for anyone... indeed, he was rather cold to one for the first forty years of friendship, warming only slightly for the fifty or so after that.

Abrome, Legolas' personal guard since birth, made no move to sit down with the others, merely paced around the small clearing, jet-black eyes scanning the surrounding area, fingering his idle bow and half-drawn arrow. The black blood that painted his face gave the dark elf a rather threatening appearance, entirely in contrast to his peaceful disposition.

"For the love of the Eldar, Abrome, sit down, will you? We have quite a way to travel yet, and we can't have you worn out before the last leg has even begun, can we?" Fienngil cried out in fond annoyance.

"My apologies, your highness," Abrome dipped his black-curled head with a smile - such actions between himself and the princes seemed almost like a routine after so many years. "The reasons why we stopped slipped my mind temporarily," his wry mouth curled into a small smile, and he seated himself on the grassy ground beside Legolas, who patted him on the back in friendship.

They sat like this for a short while, each elf eating and consumed in his own thoughts when Fienngil, who - unlike many elves- always liked conversation, decided to begin one for want of something better to do, "So, Legolas... let us know in advance: are you going to take the opportunity of going to Imladris to mess about with the twins, like you always do? Or are you prepared to do some serious work this time?"

Legolas looked up silently from his bread, pale face smooth and bright green eyes innocent and round, making him look far more like an elfling than a warrior of two millenia. This trademark look - known throughout elvendom - was sufficient to divulge everything his brother needed to know in answer to his question.

Tauredal chuckled with amusement and Maegathir groaned loudly before speaking in a tone that was the closest thing to a whine that elves had at their disposal, "My lord,_please_ do not follow your usual pattern and act as elflings with Elladan and Elrohir. Whenever you do, all three of you end up in terrible mischeif, not to mention the worst kind of danger, and one of you always, _always _gets injured."

He sighed, running a strong palm across his face wearily, "I'm afraid my nerves simply cannot allow it this time."

"Nor mine," added Abrome helpfully, ignoring the dark look this drew from his fair-haired protective.

The guard did continue, attempting to explain himself and avoid any accusation of treason, "My prince, I do not grudge my duty as your guard... indeed, I love it as I love my own life... but if I have to crawl into a Valar-forsaken rotting hole of an orc-den again to drag you and Elladan, both unconscious, out from 'neath a pile of their putrid corpses, all the while having to forcibly restrain an injured Elrohir and Lord Elrond from doing so themselves, I may have to cut my warrior-braids off and renounce my destiny. Is that fair?"

The prince laughed heartily, "You two... First, my dear Maegathir, fear not: for you and your sanity, I will stay clear of trouble this time, I swear it so." He placed a hand on his green-clad chest, over his heart, to show the sincerity of his pledge.

Satisfied, the dark-haired stealth warrior turned back to his lembas with a grunt, but Fienngil cried out in annoyance, long light brown hair whirling in the air as he turned to Legolas, interupting him, "Oh, so you will agree to that for Maegathir, but you think it's fine to ignore the pleadings of Adar, Tusinduil and myself in the exact same proposal for countless years?"

Legolas grinned his smile that mocked trouble, and retorted, "Well, I like him more than you lot, my big brother."

Fienngil muttered darkly, feeling almost as irritated by his youngest brother then as he had been when they had been elflings, and Legolas had refused to stay at the palace with his closest brother, Ithilmir, while the four eldest princes went on a hunting trip. Unknown to them, and to their frustration, he had followed Tusinduil, Fienngil, Arianduil and Andariun all the way into the very dangerous heart of Mirkwood before they noticed. King Thranduil had kept them all indoors for two weeks for that little stunt, a harsh punishment for any wood elf.

Nevertheless, his bright eyes danced as they were wont to when around this particular sibling.

Legolas' green eyes then latched onto the ebony eyes of his guard, "And faithful Abrome... firstly, may I remind you that that was only once; that it was Elladan's fault in the first place; that Elrohir was the one to go and get you; and that... fair enough - I agree with you. I promise to stay clear of orcs."

"My lord, nothing could make me happier, nor more relieved."

"Well then," started Tauredal who, having finished with his own lembas, saw no need to tarry. "Shall we hence? Mayhap we can get there before nightfall: then we shall be a full day ahead of the orc's attack."

"Very well, very well," grumbled Maegathir, pulling himself with effort from the ground, holding a nearby tree for support as he put weight on his injured knee. "I suppose the sooner we do this the sooner we can be back home, going about our daily business." Maegathir was not one for interaction, even with other elves, and was highly suspicious of Imladris elves in particular for some reason.

Tauredal looked at him quizzically, bright eyes narrowing in annoyance, "Oh, you happen to like week-long watches alone in the forest, with nothing to accompany you but the smell of evil and a few squirrels and spiders, do you Maegathir?"

The older stealth warrior threw him a glance, and a tiny hint of a smile lifted the corners of his stern mouth. Legolas, Fienngil and Abrome laughed aloud at the exchange, preparing to set off once more.

They did not hear the twenty orcs that had been quietly surrounding them, staying hidden and creeping through the shadows of the trees, despite their keen senses. For how could they know that as they jested with one another - something so rare for Mirkwood elves to indulge in - that evil had lent these creatures a silence unnatural to their destructive kind, and that darkness had sought to muffled the warning cries of the trees around them.

The ageless faces of the immortals hardened simultaneously, their strong backs straightening as they reached impulsively for their weapons... but by then, it was too late...

* * *

Elladan looked up from his book with a smile as he two brothers approached him. He raised one dark brow with a grin, "He found you then, Estel?" 

The young human child pulled a face, and hurled himself onto the bench next to the tall elf with a grunt, "Of course."

Elrohir laughed, resting a hand fondly upon the boy's wild black curls, speaking to his twin, "He's getting better, Elladan: we shall have our work cut out for us in the next few years."

This cheered Aragorn up enormously, exactly as Elrohir had known it would.

The boy leapt to his feet, waving his hands around excitedly, declaring, "In that case I'm going to go and hide again, okay? And Elladan it's your turn this time - and Elrohir, your not allowed to tell him where I've gone, alright? Not that he'll find me anyway, I'll bet! Ha! Okay, Elladan, remember... count to one thousand, okay? Starting from now... One, two, three... _GO_!"

And with that, the flight-footed child took off at breakneck speed, crashing through the foliage around him in his effort to get to the best possibly hiding place.

Elrohir gave a comical wide-eyed look to his brother as the boy disappeared quickly from their far-reaching sight, "I swear, I cannot understand him when he does that."

His twin, however, did not answer, rather seemed distracted by something suddenly, a cloud drawning down across his handsome features. The book he had been reading lay idle in his lap, and he looked distantly to the East, seemingly pensive and frustrated. Elrohir nudged him gently with his elbow, eyes searching the face identical to his own. "Brother of mine, what is it?"

At length, Elladan seemed to become more himself and answered, "I am not sure, Elrohir... but something doesn't seem quite right." After another pause, he shook his dark head, as if clearing his mind, "No matter - I'm sure it's nothing... Now, shall we go inside for some tea and music?"

"But Elladan, Estel is hiding, awaiting you to find him," Elrohir stated plainly, confused.

A mischevious grin took hold of both their features then, as realisation dawned, and the conspirators laughed as they made their way indoors.

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A/N: What do you think? Please review, I greatly appreciate it! Cheers, AliciA. 


	3. Ambush, Flight, Fight

A/N: First of all... **I AM SO VERY, VERY SORRY!**

I am so dreadfully sorry about the delay: I've been shifting computers, been connected to broadband, had to move all my stories from one rubbish computer to a slightly less rubbish one**without** the internet (which meant I had to convert all my files into one type of document and transfer them via disk due to stupid incompatibility problems, before changing them back again)... on top of this, I've been finishing up with exams while simultaneoulsy having to start my new A-level course, and a new job. Plus, I haven't been very well this past week.

All in all, I'm a tad stressed out. But nevermind, it's here now! Thankyou all so much for being so very patient. Here is your reward, and I promise to be a much better and more reliable author from now on, okay?

Reviewer comments are awaiting you at the bottom... Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Legolas cursed under his breath as he slowly grasped hold of his nearest weapon, one of his white hunting knives, being careful not to alert any enemy to this movement. This situation was the very last thing he had wanted. Usually, the prince almost enjoyed a good orc-fight... but now, when the group was already tired and injured, and they had an urgent message to deliver, being surrounded by the foul creatures could hardly be seen as anything sporting, even amongst Mirkwood elves.

All five of the elves unconsciously drew themselves into a loose, outward-facing circle, bright eyes darting around the surrounding woodland in an attempt to locate the threat they sensed was all around them. Legolas looked to his left to see Tauredal, standing brave and strong, by his side. The light-haired elf was the fastest runner of them all, barr Legolas himself who would obviously stay and fight, and the prince knew the message for Lord Elrond had to reach Rivendell, no matter what the cost.

Tauredal, sensing the archer's glance, turned his head and looked at him. Legolas saw understanding flash implicitly in the large orbs - an unspoken message passed between them, and Tauredal knew what he must do: the warning**must** reach Elrond in time.

Knowing that his captain and prince would cover him, but heart heavy with the knowledge that his actions were doubtless going to alert the enemy, and therefore sentence his friends to their untimely deaths, Tauredal's muscles tightened one by one, and he prepared himself to sprint. All he needed was a signal of some kind from Legolas. Or a good omen, perhaps, from the Valar. Anything.

But fate was not smiling down upon them, and the Valar all seemed to have turned to look another way, for at that precise moment the twenty orcs surrounding them, realising they no longer had the ever-so-crucial element of surprise, launched their disgusting bodies into their midsts. Tauredal had no time to run for cover, and all five of the elves were forced to immediately launch themselves into the deadly fray.

Quickly unsheathing his long-sword, Fienngil's bright eyes sought the location and circumstances of each of his elves, so as he could know all that was occuring in the small sunlit clearing.

Maegathir was blazing away, the furthest from him, a strange energy having burst into his grumbling limbs: he fought three orcs at the same time, enraged as he was. Fienngil did not know a great deal about the stealth warrior's former life, but he did know that Maegathir was a great asset in any sort of fighting, and that his everyday-moodiness had lent the elf some odd sort of enjoyment of battle. There... the elf was being hit in the face, but all he did was grin and fight back all the harder.

Fienngil nodded to himself, Maegathir could handle himself.

His concentration was broken then as a foul-stenching orc took that moment to hurl itself towards him. Fienngil's light feet danced around the dark creatures, and his fire-like blade was brought down and down again... clashing one, twice... and then finding it's mark in the orc's rattling throat.

Pulling his sword free, and half-heartedly wiping the dark, oozing blood from it's length, Fienngil cast his eyes about once more, trying to discover the actions relating to the loud cries and fighting sounds that enveloped the clearing.

The smallest elf, Tauredal, looked like he was almost being overpowered by two very large, very heavy-looking orcs, who were raining solid blows down upon him. The brave young elf was unleashing his all upon the two things - who looked, if orcs**looked** anything, a little surprised that such a thin and diminuative being could move so quick and with such force - and yet the awkward positioning of the orcs might have been the undoing of the Silvan captain. Fienngil made to move forward, knocking an orc back as he did so with his elbow, in order to help him, but stopped when he saw Legolas had leapt forward and relieved Tauredal of the orc that was attempting a pincer-like movement around the captain, by dispatching one of his white knives in it's chest, though not before he was kicked squarely in the pelvis, eliciting a sharp exclamation from the prince.

The other orcs, however, were angered by this, and five more moved across to the two younger elves. Fienngil saw Abrome run to protect his prince, ignoring the orc-arrows firing and the punches being thrown, and launched himself upon the broad back of the largest one which was advancing upon Legolas, before cleanly cutting it's thick, stubborn throat with a quick flash of his blade. A flash of pride flared in the elder prince's heart at that, and a glimmer of hope appeared that they might get out of this one largely unscathed.

Fienngil himself moved to the scene, and cut another orc in the backs of it's knees. Howling in it's cursed black tongue, the creature tumbled down, narrowly missing Legolas, who spared himself a moment to glare his green eyes at his brother for nearly crushing him, as though convinced he did it on purpose: "Fienngil, do you mind?" he cried out, over the noise of fighting.

There was no time for Fienngil to triumph, though, as both princes' heads whirled at the distinctive sound of a desperate elven shout.

Maegathir was being pinned against a tree trunk and, while he struggled with all his might and had succeeded in bending his legs so that his feet were both on the chest of the orc holding him, pushing it away, he was obviously injured. One arm hung limply by his side, and the other hand, grasping at the claws around his neck, was uncharacteristically weak.

Legolas, with the speed of a born archer, gained both bow and arrow in the passing of a second, aimed, and fired with the passing of another, before he himself was tackled to the ground by an orc from behind. The wind was knocked out of his ribcage and stars danced before his eyes. Legolas was now locked in a deadly battle for survival, his one remaining white knife rising up to lock firmly with the evilly-barbed sword of the orc on top of him.

Unfortunately, the creature holding Maegathir had lunged in for the kill at the same time, and so the arrow which was destined to pierce it's cruel heart actually embedded itself in the orc's shoulder.

The orc screamed in anger, red puss-filled eyes raging, and in retaliation - for the thing had an evil disposition, more so than most it's kin - the creature leaned forward and grasped one of Maegathir's long legs, swung with all it's might, before realising. Maegathir was thrown like a rag-doll through the air, arms pinwheeling, until he was brought to a sharp stop as he connecting with another tree, impacting right in the middle of the thigh with a sickening crunch.

"No!" cried out Fienngil, against his will, drawing the attention of a nearby orc who held a mean-looking scythe in his hands, and was followed by another. The began to fight.

Abrome and Tauredal, having finished of the orcs that had previously been on them, came to his aid. Abrome reached out, and with the deathly silence of an experienced palace guard, went through the process of snapping the neck of the one nearest to him. Before he could complete this action, however, the orc had ducked and whirled around, slashing the faithful guard deeply with his long sword. Abrome fell back with an agonised howl, clutching at the huge streak of red painting his thin chest, fighting against unconsciousness. Tauredal moved towards the fallen elf, where Fienngil saw him disappear behind another advancing orc.

Another scream came to Fienngil's attention, but before he could pinpoint what it was exactly, he was locked into a wrestle with the last remaining orc. Blows were dealt to his face and chest, but he gave as well as he recieved. It all happened so quickly, the prince was unable to remember what came first. He felt a searing pain in the right side of his head, his shout mixing with the clamour of the others going on all around him. The world tumbled around him, and suddenly he was flat on his back, cracking his head on the ground below, with the sickening corpse of an orc laid across him.

"Legolas?" he cried out weakly, feeling the strength leave his body: there was no way he would be able to shift this orc on his own. His vision was fading...

The world went black.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this is quite short, I promise I shall have more for you soon. I am dreadfully sorry about the delay, and hope you will forgive me by reviewing! If you read the story at all, please don't hesitate to let me know all your various thoughts or feelings, and please tell me what I can do to make it better for**you** folks!

**SmilingDragonGirl:** I'm glad and relieved you like my created Mikwood elves, and also thankful the names aren't too confusing. I'm afraid you'll just have to see whether they survive! If your curious about all the mentioned little pasts and histories, you should check out my other LOTR stories, as they are often direct references back to them... however, I have gotten into a nasty habit where I include things I am **GOING **to write about, or at least plan to... Stick wi' me, kid: I'll get there in the end!

**xiaoweisan:** Now you've said that, I might have to **ARRANGE **for Legolas to overhear such innocent remarks from Estel... if he survives, that is! Cheers for the idea. I'm glad you're liking it.

**the silent planet:** Stick with it, I guarantee even cuter-ness. Thanks for the good luck (didn't work, but nevermind!).

**Ithil-valon:** I'm always intrigued when my stores interest people from the **"OTHER"** camp i.e. those who prefer Aragorn... now, don't get me wrong, I love Aragorn very much: find him funny, handsome, great etc... I just always seem to focus (and injure) Legolas, for some reason. But I promise you there will be some bone-fide lovely little Estel moments just for you if you stick with me!

**A. NuEvil:** Cool name, by the way... Aragorn's managed to grow up pretty near his own idea of the ideal prince, hasn't he? But I promise you he will find out the trouble of being a royal soon enough! Also, your reviews are incredibly amusing to me for some reason, and very much appreciated, so please keep it up!

**Sirith:** Yay - you're finally back! You seemed to just drop off the face of the planet a while back. What on earth happened? I shall have to get my pitchfork back out... dust it off, ready for weilding. Welcome back!

**Beth:** Mwaahahahaaha - I thought that might work! Go on, tell me: if you absolutely **HAD** to choose between Legolas and Elladan? I'll include some nice fluffy moments between the pair of them later on, if you want!

**Templa Otmena:** I am glad you're still with me... though infinately jealous of your gap year. But don't you worry, pet: the karma god will strike back in vengeance soon enough, and you will quickly remember how crappy life really is! Only another year till my gap year. Humph... if I get there! I love the fact you like my original characters. I'm, always nervous about the reaction they will get from readers, especially the established and much-liked ones like you... I think that might be partly why I bottled it with "The Return Of The Prince" (which I will get back to, I promise). There were too many of my precious characters who were not having justice done to them - in my opinion - and I wanted to include them all, but then it just got incredibly confusing. So, all in all, **THANKYOU!**

Cheers again to all of you, and please review!

AliciA xxxxx


	4. Trouble and Comfort

A/N: Hello all.

Well, another year older... wish I was another year wiser! It was my 17th birthday last Thursday, and so hopefully you'll understand why I didn't post the chapter until now: I've only just managed to relocate my head after an entire week of festivities. My own fault.

Also, I've had a bit of writers block with this chapter, so hopefully it's up to the standard. Thankyou all for reviewing, your comments are so kind and often very funny. Extra thanks to Jollee, who warned me about extensive answering comments to reviews. Where would I be without you, eh?

Can I just say that JK Rowling is now my eternal enemy - and that I am giving serious consideration to not reading any of her books ever again. Right, I'm done with her, for now. On with the show!

* * *

"Now, really, Elladan: I would expect such a thing from an elfling one sixteenth of your summers past. You are a responsible Elven lord, and a respectable figurehead for our way of life here in Imladris... younger elves and even human children look up to the pair of you, and you set the example for all. You study lore and the art of fighting with great care and attention... Now for the love of all things elvish - **act your age **, will you! You were supposed to be looking after the child, and instead you send him off on a fool-hardy wild goose chase while you yourselves sit in the Hall of Fire, until the poor lad comes in crying, hours later, thinking he'd lost you and** he **was to blame! Shame on you, ion-nin!" 

It was very rare Lord Elrond ever raised his voice, though he often had cause to, and all of Imladris seemed to be listening to the lecture Elrond was giving his two grown up sons. The twins stood reticent before him, dark heads equally bowed, long raven hair falling in identical curtains to entirely cover their equally identical faces.

Elrohir looked up cautiously at their fuming father, heart having sunk to it's lowest possible depth. "Is Estel alright, ada?" The true regret that inflected his gentle voice appeared to convince Elrond of their guilt, and their wish for forgiveness, and so he sighed as he sank wearily into a chair, bringing a hand to his aching forehead.

"Aye: he is now, at any rate," he said in a far quieter tone, piercing blue eyes watching his sons for their reaction. "Glorfindel is with him - it took him ages to calm the child." His stern, dark blue eyes once again sought the control of his sons' gaze when the both glanced at one another.

Elladan lifted his head to look at Elrond, "We are sorry, ada: it will never happen again... We deserve any punishment that you see fit, and we swear we will not quarrel it's terms."

This was a risky thing to have said, but the elder elf felt entirely wretched for having left Estel outside - he and Elrohir had accidentally fallen asleep in the Hall of Fire - and so was willing to do almost anything to gain the forgiveness of his father and, more importantly, little Estel himself.

Elrond nodded in recognition of the apology, strong hands moving to grip the sides of the chair. "So it is. You shall both forsake your books and comfort for three days and nights, and shall instead take part in the border control to the East of this house. If I see you within these walls before that time is complete, your sentence shall be thrice this length... Understand?"

The twins' shoulders had slumped dejectedly while their father had been speaking, and now both heads nodded grimly. While the pair were keen fighters and strong warriors, border control was the least desirable position for any elf competant at fighting: it largely involved sitting around for weeks on end, until finally some enemies came along, and during the course of that one fight, the border control were often completely wiped out.

But both elves, whilst hating border control, simultaneously thought that the crime fitted the punishment.

A quiet, resigned glance was shared between Elladan and Elrohir, before both sighed and nodded. "Understood," they said in unison. And they left the room, but not before Elrond's sharp hearing caught a whispered, "We probably deserved that".

When both twins had left the room, and their soft footfalls had died away downt he corridor, Elrond shook his dark head fondly. He loved his sons dearly, but they were wooden-headed at times. Still, he felt like he may have over-reacted... something was troubling him, and he did not know what it could be. He felt an uneasiness whisper on the winds, and he heard the trees around Imladris mumbling and muttering though he, whileskilled in many things including the enviable gift of foresight, was not able to understand. Trouble seemed to be brewing somewhere beyond his lands: not a great deal, but something he thought might affect them all and bring his land sadness.

Hesent his dark eyes skywards, frustrated by himself, as though hoping for an to be written on the ceiling. Unfortunately, all there was, was wood... not very helpful, by any means.

* * *

"There, now... that's better than shouting the place down, isn't it Estel?" The deep, strong voice of the renowned warrior held a gentle tone to it, entirely in contrast to Glorfindel's reputation and striking appearance. It was the tone he reserved for tired little eflings and upset children like Estel, or frequently injured warriors like the twins, or even their friend Legolas. 

He watched as the exhausted child nodded forlornly, looking entirely upset and not at all settled, though a little too tired to do a thing about it.

Glorfindel's heart dropped at this, and he swore to himself then that he would have Elladan and Elrohir's guts for garters the next time he saw them. True, he knew the mischeivous pair well enough to** know **they had not been purposefully mean - indeed, they would rather die than intentionally injure their dearest Estel - but, in all honesty, the two really should have known better. They were getting older now, even in Elven years... and to not fully think about the consequences of actions very thoroughly, went entirely against Elvish nature anyway.

He busied himself with pulling up the blankets of the soft bed up around the poor boy, and lay one hand on the ten-year-old's chest while the other soothingly stroked Estel's wild curls. "Don't you worry, little one: Elrohir and Elladan shall get their return for such an underhand trick - they'll recieve punishment."

While the comment had been intended to make the little boy feel better, Glorfindel was distinctly alarmed to see greater distress well up in the large grey eyes, and a small tear begin to trace it's way down one flushed cheek.

This was entirely disturbing. It was most unlike Estel to cry - Glorfindel remembered clearly the day when the lad had been burnt badly by a small dragon he had accosted in the woods surrounding Imladris, nigh on three years ago... even then, Arathorn's son had bravely but staunchly refused to show how much pain he was in, even though the skin on his small chest and shoulder had been raging scarlet.

Unsure, the elven lord leaned forward, his morning-glory hair spilling lightly over his shoulders, and he softly wiped the teardrop away. "Come, child: what is the matter, Estel? You are no weeper - I know as much as that." But Estel simply would not look at him, keeping his watery eyes averted. "Estel?"

"They'll hate me even** more **, now, won't they?" Estel cried suddenly, and another tear slipped past his defences.

Glorfindel paused, trying to work out the child's logic. Suddenly, Estel's fears were as clear as a summer day. "Now, you can't mean Elladan and Elrohir, can you? Those two big, soft elves who love you... love you as much as I or Lord Elrond, love you as much as your father and mother did?"

Estel nodded mutely. Then he burst out, "I'm always tagging on behind them... they can never do anything because I'm in the way. They must hate having me for a little brother... I'm no use: I can't even play a game of hide-and-go-seek properly. I'm just a silly child."

The elf sat in silence, thinking about how he could handle this situation: what with no children of his own, it having been so long since the twins were unmanageable little eflings, and what with Arwen living in Lothlorien... he knew he could quiet easily drop the ball in this matter. Glorfindel ended up plumping for the first thought that had entered his astute mind, hoping that if it did not comfort the boy, it would at least distract him, "Well, no matter what you think, Estel, I know for a** fact **that they do not share your view."

He let his words seep into the stubborn young mind of the child before him, heard the subsiding sniffles and watched carefully as they large eyes widened just a little bit as they moved to meet his own eyes. "Really?" came the tentative whisper.

Praise the Valar! Glorfindel thought to himself.

"Yes indeed... when they left you to play hide and seek - something they should **not **have done - they came into the house full of the most fond talk about how you had entertained them with your ideas about being a prince... they praised your imagination, ambition and courage, and thought you showed to them everyday the qualities one needs to become a prince." The elven warrior was taking liberties a little, but at that moment, he would have killed to make his beloved Estel feel better, and he was just relieved to have found something so effective.

Estel looked impressed with himself, and his eyes lit up with the wonderfully bright light they were wont to do. "I just think it'd be great fun, you know? To be a **real **prince." The light in his grey eyes turned half-devious, and he gave Glorfindel a sneaky sidelong glance - Glorfindel of course saw this, and had to hide his knowing smile deftly behind his hand.

"Lord Glorfindel?" Estel's curiously innocent voice was high, and his words drawn out - the elf immediately felt alarm sirens burst into his head, as trouble was confirmed: the human **never **called him 'Lord' anything... though Estel had once called him 'Master Mean-Face' - something Glorfindel was sure he would remember until his next dying day.

The child went on, regardless of the growing anxiety crossing the warrior's handsome face, "Lord Glorfindel, you **must** have known some princes in your life, right?"

"Aye, that I have, young one... I even know some now, come to think of it," he answered with a smile, how wonderful it would be if Estel maintained this ideal of royalty long enough for them to reveal his true lineage to him... though Glorfindel knew this would almost certainly not be the case.

If it was possible, Estel's eyes widened even further, and he grinned, all upset now forgotten, "Could I meet them? Are they scary?"

"They definitely can be," Glorfindel laughed, his mind conjuring up the image of a young, blonde Mirkwood prince who had pinned him to the ground with two white knives to his throat on Glorfindel's first arrival in their fair lands, before realising who it was. Legolas had apologised profusely ever since then, but the memory still brought an amused lift to the older warrior's heart.

"Are they handsome? What do they do? When can I meet them?" The child all but exploded with questions. Glorfindel held up his hands half-heartedly against the tide, but laughed musically with the joy this human gave to him. Estel, however, was relentless, "Are there princes close by!"

Glorfindel paused with a slow smile, "Closer than you think, little one... and I promise you, if you go to sleep now, I shall answer all your questions in full tomorrow and arrange a meeting. Alright?"

"Excellent," Estel settled back into his blankets: he could not wait for the day he could meet a real life prince.

Unfortunately, that day would come too soon for them all.

* * *

A/N: There: you shall have to wait till the next chapter to see what's happened to our band of Mirkwood elves, I'm afraid. But don't worry, the next chapter shall be hot on the heels of this one, pending the reaction to this chapter... so review! 


	5. Survival

A/N: Mwahahahaha! I thought that might rattle a few people's cages... all is fair in the world of fanfiction, I'm afraid.

Now I know how to get you all to review - delay all the stuff you lot want to read! Although, I'd probably end up taking that too far, and then no one would read them, and I'd be gutted. Aw, foiled my own plan, there.

Again, I have an excuse as to how long it took to get this chapter out, but this one's a good one and it makes me feel stupid... so you'll probably enjoy it:

Because I go to work at my summer job all day, from Monday to Friday, I started to believe I wasn't enjoying my summer to the fullest...I reckoned, seeing as it's gonna be my last one in school, I should enjoy it, right? And so, about a week ago, when England was finally given the barest hint of sun, I took the executive decision to skive off work and go swimming in the nearby, massive river that runs right through the region, with some friends.

So, we spend about four hours swimming constantly, back and forth, against currents and avoiding pikes and the huge slabs of concrete - remnents of a bridge that was once there... so by the time we finally got out of the river, we were absolutely knackered and the sun had gone in. We collapse on the grassy river bank, soaking wet, wearing t-shirts and our knickers.

I go home. I wake up with the worst head-cold of my ENTIRE life, and feel like I want to die... and I'd only just gotten over it when I had to face my AS level results... which were great, actually... but then I had to go away for a week... and then I had work.

So, that's why this chapter was so late.

Bear in mind I was feverish when I wrote this! Please review and enjoy!

cheers AliciAxxx

p.s: Also, while I generally live in a past/fantasy world, as a rule (ie. am obsessed with LOTR, Pirates of the Caribbean, Master and Commander, Star Wars etc), I have recently become almost entirely focused on more modern day fandoms. The main obsessions at the minute being LOST, Starsky and Hutch, House and The West Wing. Because of this, I have found it a fair bit harder to locate my muse in respect to this story, but hopefully I have it back now.

p.p.s: Hugh Laurie for Prime Minister!

* * *

Legolas had been tackled to the ground, and at that precise moment, that was the only thing he knew. 

His vision became hazy and a pain had developed in his chest with the weight of the orc on top of him, it's dark protective armor digging sharply into his ribs. He knew that he must kill this orc, or instead be killed himself... a prospect he was not altogether fond of.

Blows were being dealt mercilessly all across his body, and he was back-handed by the orc using the shaft of the barbed sword the thing held. Though the dimness of his mind he could hear the cries of his friends in trouble from all around the clearing, so loud in his ears he thought he could not bear it - the sounds spurred Legolas on to fight back and escape, if only to help them.

Fighting back with sudden renewed vigour, Legolas coiled and writhed underneath the creature. He jolted and twisted, struck out wildly with his arms and kicked his legs with all his might so the orc, which was quite a size, began to lose it's pinning grip on him.

The orc roared with frustration and brought down the barbed-sword it held with a violent scream: Legolas' honed instincts were too good for that, though, as his last white hunting knife was revealed in a flash and firmly locked itself with the blade, held against his throat, quivering with the effort of keeping the razor-sharp edge away from the pale skin of his neck.

He glared up with rancour into the face of his attacker, feeling the hot, putrid breath dance upon his face, and seeing the blood-thirst in it's evil yellow eyes, the hatred in the orc's disfigured face. He fought against his sudden instinct to gag.

"Not so strong now, are you, ELF," the orc baited in halting Westron, his words poison to Legolas' ears. The thing sneered, displaying two rows of horrendous, rotting yellow fangs.

Legolas' handsome face twisted into a matching mask of abhorrance, and he spat into the orc's right eye. "Don't count on it, YRCH," he replied, voice low and dangerous.

The creature screamed again in anger, and there was another sudden flourish of weapons. The orc hurled his black sword down again and again, hoping to connect with the elf's golden head or, failing that, any part of his body. But Legolas fought back with all his strength and, even in such a confined space and with his limited body use, he matched the evil thing blow for blow, parrying with a skill that far passed any other being walking the earth at that time.

He was not the youngest captain of Mirkwood's forces for nothing.

But suddenly, he felt a liquid hot flash of pain pierce his stomach, and he gulped in a great breath of air before an agonised shout escaped his throat. He had never known pain like this before, but he knew not what had happened. Legolas felt as though a million arrows and daggers were inside his belly, fighting to get out, tearing at his insides. His green eyes darkened and slid out of focus, and sweat beaded upon his furrowed brow, before snaking down his face... but still he fought on, seeing no other choice open to him.

The orc swung down with his dark sword, but Legolas knocked it back and threw a blow in it's face, connecting solidly. The creature retaliated by punching him soundly in the chest, but the elf stopped this by slashing blindly at the thing's ugly face, causing it to relent slightly in order to keep it's eyesight. But Legolas' reactions were slowing, and his resolve waning... it would only be a matter of time before this fight ended, one way or another.

Finally, he succeeded in spearing the orc through it's thick chest with his knife, just as the creature had raised both it's arms to bring down the fatal blow that would surely have ended the prince's life. Surprised yellow eyes glinted down at Legolas, before the orc toppled backwards and landed with a dull thud, arms still raised threateningly.

Legolas tried to move his legs, to free himself of the orc corpse, allowing him to stand and aid his brother and friends, but the long limbs simply would not obey the commands his brain was sending to them. The lay there, inert and useless, trecherous.

Panic rose in his throat, clawed at his lungs, and he fought the urge to gasp as he brought his arms down to his stomach, where a dull ache was lancing through him. why couldn't he move. His suddenly weak fingers released his dagger without his prior knowledge. Legolas felt dizzy and sick, and was unable to form a thought in his head other than one fixated directly on the pain creeping across his body, through his blood, flaring from his stomach.

Finally, his searching hands found the source, and he pressed his numb, shaking fingers to his flesh. He held back a shout, but could not prevent himself moaning a little as the agony he felt intensified. Legolas slwoly raised his hand to look at it, and was faintly surprised to see thick, viscous blood coating his palm completely. He watched in distant fascination as a large red droplet wandered vaguely his forearm, colouring his armguard.

Legolas could feel his world becoming blurry, and he struggled to remain lucid... he needed to find out what had happened to Fienngil and the others. They needed him to help them! What if they were injured - he couldn't bear it if he were to blame. He had to get up. Get up!

He moaned again, feeling wetness beginning to seep into the backs of his leggings - a small part of his brain knowing it wasn't simply the feel of the cold ground, telling him relentlessly it was his own blood. The graying world around him faded to complete black, and he was unsure whether he would wake up from it this time.

The lids that covered the bright eyes flickered, before they were slowly raised to reveal unfocused grey-blue eyes, the colour of storms over the sea.

Fienngil was unsure as to what had just happened, but after a moment he was able to piece together enough information to know that he was lying on the floor... and his head hurt.

"My prince, at last you wake!" came a distant voice, and Fienngil's sharp senses felt the tiny vibrations through the earth of an elf running closer to him. He blinked his eyes upwards in time to be greeted with the oddly-cheerful, upside-down face of Abrome, bending curiously over him. The dark-haired elf looked to be fine, with no obvious injuries... the guard looked a little alarming, though, seemingly painted from head to toe in black orc blood, giving the mild elf a decidedly frightening appearance.

Fienngil struggled to sit up, sheer stubborn pride making him bat away the helping hand Abrome immediately offered, "Was I knocked out for long?"

"Nay, my prince: I, myself, only just woke a minute or so ago," Abrome smiled slightly, shrugging his thin shoulders, wincing at some wound unknown to Fienngil, "it's just I have always wanted to say that."

The prince chuckled at the Royal Guard's oddness, than groaned and clutched his pounding head, noting the blood that was caked there, "I am surprised you have not had the opportunity with Legolas..." he trailed off, fear lancing through his heart, and he latched wide eyes on Abrome. "Legolas! What of my brother?"

The panic that flared instantaneously in Abrome's jet-black eyes, before the stoic young elf deftly masked it, was enough to send a chill down Fienngil's bruised spine. The elder prince shot up from the floor, fighting the nausea that threatened to claim him, and wheeled around to face the smaller elf, "You know not where your charge is? The elf you swore to protect with your life!" Fienngil knew this was massively unfair to the guard, who had proven his worth for watching over Legolas many times, and who was almost as dear to the young archer as any of his five brothers.

Abrome, a shy personality in all respects, stiffened, and anger darted across his fine features. The guard turned his back on Legolas' brother and look all around the camp, noting two fallen shapes of elves amid the masses of orc corpses: neither of them had the shining blonde hair that identified his prince. His quite tone held a bristling edge to it, as he turned backl, "I awoke maybe forty seconds before you did, my prince, and busied myself with securing the perimeter, as is my priority... I would have thought you, as a captain of Mirkwood's forces, would understand."

Fienngil, though knowing he was in the wrong, could not afford the time nor the effort at that moment to apologise. He growled rudely in dismissal, a habit he had picked up from his father, and began to stalk the clearing, aware of Abrome doing the same in the other direction, both with the common aim of finding Legolas as soon as physically possible. He saw that Tauredal, at least, was beginning to stir, and felt gladdened... before he caught sight of Maegathir's twisted, inert form still lying at the base of one of the taller tree. Fienngil grimaced, hoping against hope the elder elf was okay, praying for his respite, just until they'd had the chance to find Legolas and make sure he was okay.

A panicked shout drew his attention to Abrome, and he ran on shaking legs to the other side of the clearing, following the sound even though he could not see the guard. Moving through the few trees, he found the dark haired elf leaning over something, hands moving frantically over the form.

He saw long legs clad in green leggings lying haphazardly in a pool of blood. His heart clenched as he saw the skewed angle of the right arm and the desperation of the left hand, daubed completely in red, that had clutched at a belly, but now lay limp upon a raw mass of ragged flesh. He saw a death-white mask, and eyes tightly shut against the horror of reality. He saw bright golden hair, the colour of sunny mornings, spilled across the forest floor, some strands died red.

Fienngil saw his worst nightmare.

* * *

A/N: What did you think? I'm all guns raring to write the next chapter, for a change. So the sooner you review and let me know your thoughts and opinions on this one, the sooner I can start writing it... you dig? Thankyou to every one who has reviewed so far. 


	6. Fallout and Aftermath

A/N: Howdy-doody fellow fan-fictioners! And how are you all this fine day?

As you can tell, am feeling rather happy today... no particular reason. In fact, technically I should be feeling downright miserable as I have to go back to school in three days and have not been able to sleep for the past two nights. Och vell, there is clearly something wrong with me.

Glad you all seemed to like that last chapter, although a few of you were a tad combative, which is slightly weorrying. As for all those people getting annoyed with the long wait for Estel and Legolas to meet up... tough. I'm choosing purposefully to build it up and give it a good backstory - you only get one chance at a "first meeting" fic and I'm not going to bugger it up, so they'll meet when I'm good and ready to have them meet. Alreet?

Aye, maybe the lack of sleep IS getting to me, just a tad. lol.

Enjoy the chapter and remember that more reviews faster updating. I'm mercenary like that, y'know! And apology for the slight delay in downloading this chapter - have been busy starting my final year at college, and the A levels are going to be soooooo hard! Help!

* * *

Fienngil felt his face crumple as he saw Legolas there, lying on the floor.

His legs felt fixed to the ground beneath him, as though great tree roots held him prisoner, standing in that spot. The whole world seemed to shrink inwards at that moment, til all eternity comprised of was him and his still brother.

A rush of fear surged him forwards, and he fell heavily to his knees next to the prince. "No, Legolas," he whispered, light hands clutching at his brother's tunic, and bringing the golden head, sticky with thick blood, to his chest. He cradled Legolas as though the younger elf was a babe once more, and patted his cold cheek, hoping against hope there was still breath in the body. He was vaguely aware of Abrome, moving around him and the rest of the clearing, but he cared not: all that mattered now was gaining some sign of life from Legolas.

There was so much blood...

Fienngil's mind flashed forwards and backwards at high speed, remembering times he'd thought his brother had been mortally injured or the times when he'd believed he would die... images that anticipated a life without the kind-hearted and warm young prince poisoned his mind. Their father would be ruined - Legolas was his mother's child, much more so than any of the other Royal Children, except Esladiya... his death would likely kill them all. The kingdom would fall without their leader, their lands would finally be overrun with orcs and it's citizens speak only in the Black Tongue... and elves throughout Middle-earth would find themselves journeying to the West far sooner than they might have done, had there been more to remain for upon those mortal shores.

A dark veil fell upon his consciousness then, shielding him and his brother from the rest of the world - Fienngil cursed all the times he'd fought with Legolas, all the times they'd argued (something which happened frequently), all the times he'd upset him. A huge surge of regret welled up within his heart as he remembered all the times in their long lives that he hadn't celebrated with his youngest brother when he was happy, hadn't stood by his side when he'd been angry... hadn't comforted him when he was sad. He could have spent so much more time with his beautiful brother: it scared him that now he might not even have the chance.

The elder prince's racing mind was brought to a sudden, sharp halt when he felt Legolas stir, and heard his weak groan. "Legolas?" he leaned down, fearful that it had been a dream, a figment of his imagination.

Green eyes, the colour of the warmest summer forest, flickered open in answer.

Laughing with pure relief, Fienngil rubbed his brother's thin shoulder, and clasped his cheek fondly. He was thankful and a little surprised that the eyes looked fairly clear and lucid... it was obvious Legolas was in pain, but he had not yet lost enough blood to indulge it. He was a Mirkwood elf, for Valar's sake!

Legolas looked dreamily up at his brother, as though confused, and then down at himself, taking in his splayed legs and bloodied tunic. "What in Middle-earth did I do?" he asked weakly, almost to himself.

Fienngil chuckled, lightly though, as he could feel himself beginning to tread the line of becoming hysterical, and he still had to get the ragged band of elves to Rivendell. "You kept up your usual tradition of visiting Rivendell and have become injured, that's what you did." The brown-haired elf couldn't help the small amount of anger that seeped into his words: what if he had been killed with his foolhardy attempt to protect them all?

Legolas looked up, sheepishly, "Oh."

Fienngil nodded, looking stern and reminding Legolas enormously of their father, a rather frightening prospect. "Aye, 'oh'."

"Sorry about that."

"You will be."

Legolas grinned slightly, knowing then that his brother was not serious, and then slowly blinked. His eyes dimmed slightly, then miraculously cleared - Fienngil was no healer, but he could tell Legolas was drifting in and out of awareness, and fighting to stay conscious. As he pondered this, and his quick mind ran through all the ways he could possibly lead his warriors to Imladris safely, Legolas fought weakly in his arms and let out a minute cry of frustration.

"What of our kinsmen, Gil? Tell me they have not been slaughtered... tell me!" He latched a desperate hand onto Fienngil's neck, forcing the elder elf to bend forward and look into his eyes. The young prince was becoming flustered and breathed rapidly, his eyes glistened and a slight wheeze was audible from deep within his chest - this was not good.

"Peace, Legolas! Calm yourself or you shall do ill!"

He watched as Legolas fought to control his erratic breathing, and realised that he actually did not know how their fellow travellers and friends faired - a guilty pang in his heart accompanied this thought, and he looked around over his shoulder, as if to see them there.

He saw the blood-painted Abrome walking back towards them, and by his side was Tauredal. He was holding his bloodied fair head, looking pale and shaken, but otherwise no worse for the wear... he even offered a small, silly wave at his two princes before wincing and bringing both hands back to the crown of his head. What was worrying Fienngil now, however, was the significant absence of Maegathir.

He glanced at Abrome, and attempted to discern some inclination as to the eldest elf's fate - but Abrome looked near-stricken, his black eyes large and round. Fienngil felt a ice-cold stone drop into his stomach. He nodded at the guard, then busied himself with distracting Legolas, "Come now, brother: let me see where you are struck, for all this blood must have gotten here somehow..."

Legolas smiled as he panted, "I don't know: I attract quite a lot of it anyway, I know not from where... ahhhh!"

He gasped in pain as Fienngil's searching hands brushed over his tender stomach. A significant look passed between the three uninjured elves, and Fienngil gently pulled back the shimmering grey tunic that had come loose of it's fastenings, and pushed down slightly the waistband of the green leggings, to reveal Legolas' flat belly.

It was mangled beyond belief.

Fienngil heard Tauredal cry out an exclamation and the usually unflappable Abrome reel back from the sight. Fienngil himself felt sick to his very bones.

The skin was torn raggedly from the muscle, a great slash decorating the space between the two jutting hip bones - one of which could visibly be seen. The prince's internal organs were also now on display, under all the ripped flesh. The lower two ribs had obviously crumpled beneath the pressure of the heavy orc, and so now jutted at various odd angles beneath the pale skin. The remaining skin was slick with bright red blood, and the dark life-force oozed relentlessly from deep within the wound.

"Ai, Legolas," Fienngil mourned and swallowed his sickness down, letting his proud head fall so it rested upon the top of his brother's.

"It is not... too bad, Gil..." Legolas grunted, pain having flared up even with this small examination, the slightest movement jostling his grinding ribs and causing blood to renew its flow. Fienngil heard the cahnge in his voice and leaned forward slightly to see the younger prince was ashen, sweating and trembling - he was losing too much blood, too quickly... at this rate he would not last a mile, let alone make it to Imladris. Something had to be done. Fienngil could not lose him.

The elder prince slowly lowered Legolas to the ground while sliding himself out from under him. He lay the injured prince down, covered him with his own outer-tunic, and instructed Tauredal - who insisted he was fine - to watch him for a moment. All orders being obeyed, Fienngil wandered as if in a daze towards the other side of the clearing. He dragged his hand down his face, and ran his fingers through his thick hair without noticing, frantically thinking of what on Middle-earth they could do next.

Suddenly, a kind hand was on his shoulder, and he wheeled round to face a very concerned Abrome, "My lord?"

"I am fine, faithful friend... I just need to sort things out." Fienngil paused, then asked, "What has happened to Maegathir?" He dreaded the worst.

"He is alive, Prince Fienngil, and I think he shall make it," Abrome nodded with a small smile. "It is just a matter of sheer awkwardness and pain with Maegathir. I am no healer, but I inspected him when I found him: he is still deeply unconscious and, by the looks of it, as a few very nasty breaks in his left leg, right up to the thigh. I am unsure as to whether the limb can ever heal in it's rightful position again. And I think all his fingers are broken."

Fienngil groaned, "If only we had brought your cousin, Embiron, with us - he would sought us out, and make sure Legolas never forgot it... from now on I decree that any party of Mirkwood elves with more than three persons must always be accompanied with a healer."

Abrome managed to grin a little at that, despite his worry for his prince and the stealth warrior, "As you wish, my lord."

"I shall splint the leg up, as well as his poor hands... and I hope that will stay the course until we reach Imladris and the legendary hands of Lord Elrond. It is far too dangerous to leave any of our number here, for the orcs are hot on our heels, and Legolas is losing blood by the pintful." The prince looked down, considering his next course of action. He glanced up at Abrome, and notice the guard appeared to be swaying slightly on his feet, "Abrome, did you sustain any injuries? I order you to show me." He knew from experience that this was the only way he could get the curly-haired elf to admit to anything that might be construed as weakness.

Abrome nodded tightly, "I recieved a slash from a sword across my chest, but it is not poisoned - I'm fine."

"Nevertheless, I think we need rest here for a short time at least and patch each other up as best we may. Three-quarts of an hour til we depart." And with that, he strode back to Legolas, leaving Abrome leaning against a tree trunk.

* * *

Little Estel giggled quietly to himself as he followed Elladan and Elrohir's party throught the leafy undergrowth of the forest that surrounded Rivendell.

It was late at night, long past his bed time, but he'd been so restless after Glorfindel had left that he'd sat outside to watch the sun set on his balcony, when he'd recognised his two brothers, dark hair shining even in the evening light, preparing to leave.

Estel was no fool - he knew his dear brothers were being punished for their actions towards him, but he could take no pleasure nor satisfaction in this. Instead, a burning curousity had leapt into flame in his chest, and he had shimmied down the blooming clematis plant that was tangling itself in the wooden straits of the balcony as easily as any elf, and had slipped down the wooden footpath after the party of six elves.

It had been an impluse decision, but one the boy didn't regret in the least. The night was cold, bracingly so, but he did not feel it's chill: he had been wrapped up snuggly for bed by Lord Glorfindel, and his slippered feet had good grip on the cool ground below. He had the mind that he'd follow them to wherever it was his brothers and the elven guards were going - just to see where - and then he would turn back around and return to the Homely House in time for breakfast. No one need ever know he was gone. And in the morning, Glorfindel could show him the portrait of the closest elven prince that was hung up at home, answer his questions on the subject and tell him when he could meet a real-life prince.

It was perfect.

He grinned impishly, and the trees watched sadly on as the white-clad little figure was claimed by the night.

* * *

A/N: That all right for you? I was very tired while writing the second half of this as I have just returned from an enormous spending splurge in Newcastle, buying as many jumpers and coats as possible. It's cold here in England already!

Please review and I shall see you soon!


	7. Hopeless and Trapped

A/N: Wow, I love you people.

And not in the fake, "aww-shucks" mock-modesty way: I actually love each and every one of you. Just checked my stats and have found 4001 hits to this story! What! How has that happened? Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining, it's just astounding and very, very flattering... I'm pretty positive about half those hits have been mistakes, but nevermind... lol.

Also flattering is that I have people from as far away as Estonia reading this - belting! Yeah, okay, I'm stuck in Northern England, and the majority of you are in America or Australia... anything is more exotic than Newcastle! It's getting really cold here, as well: I have contracted "The Lurgie" as I usually do around this time of year. Or, in fact, anytime, as I seem to attract illnesses and injuried fairly often. Bahhhh. Hope none of you lot are feeling too rotten.

Anyway, MUST do some Geoffrey Chaucer investigating - he was a cool geezer, you know.

Enjoy the chapter and PLEASE remember to review at the end - it'll help me get better!

A/N2: Sorry, this was supposed to be posted ages ago, but I fractured my right hand and so understandably typing is taking a little longer than usual! Please forgive and enjoy!

* * *

Estel was cold. Really cold.

He shivered, and looked around him - it was utterly black all around him. He guessed the sun might come up again in a few hours, but until then, he was on his own. This idea didn't really appeal to him very much at all.

He'd lost track of Elladan and Elrohir's group some time before - they'd taken an unexpected turn while he hadn't been paying attention. And while Lord Glorfindel said he had the makings of a fine tracker and would most likely be a Ranger some day, the ten year-old himself admitted he was not all that good... at the moment. He'd been distracted by a large amount of noise coming to him from the distance to his right - it had sounded like screaming. Terrible screaming.

When he'd been able to move again, fright having stopped his motion, Estel had looked around to find the broad back of the elf he'd been following since Imladris completely disappeared.

And now he was lost.

The dark-haired child staunchly refused to cry, and he squared his small shoulders, searching the surrounding area for some sort of solution. Wrapping his arms around himself, drawing his nightshirt closer about him, he yawned, and rubbed a sleep-ridden eye with the heel of his hand. He needed some sleep - there was very little he could do about his current situation at the moment... and he'd surely be able to find his own way back in the morning. But he didn't trust that particular part of the forest to keep him safe from whatever was making those horrible noises in the woods: he couldn't sleep on the ground.

And so, sensible Estel picked a tree, and climbed up into it, feet getting scratched, even in their slippers. Once he was in the second-lowest branch from the ground, he leaned with his back against the thick trunk of the tall oak, legs tightly gripping the branch lest he fall out of his roost, and let his head fall forward onto his chest.

He was asleep before he could think.

* * *

Fienngil sighed and rubbed a hand down his rough and weary face.

Fatigue stole into his bones, creeping up on him after four days without sleep or waking dreams. But he could not rest now, not even as the sun began it's slow climb back up towards the heavens and dawn gradually swept away the darkness of night. They had not been too far from Imladris when the orcs had ambushed them, but now heavily injured and hindered, they had not been able to make much further progress. Their precious message was still undelivered, and Fienngil knew it to be imperative that Imladris recieve warning... but he also knew they were in a bad shape to be doing much forewarning.

He looked around at his group, and was saddened by the state of them since the attack the previous day.

Directly across the campfire - a fire lit despite the risks out of sheer need - lay Maegathir, flat on his back with his broken hands resting upon his belly. The dark-haired elf was exhausted and yet wide awake with the pain, the fire glittered off his helpless eyes as he stared upwards into the fading stars. The splint Fienngil had made for his left leg, as well as the binding of his fingers, had been good, and he had been able to lean upon Abrome and Fienngil the entire way, but the small journey had still done him in. But he would not say anything: this elf was far too proud for such a thing and Fienngil knew him well enough to know he was silently reprimanding himself for becoming injured in the first place.

It was cruel irony alone that the Valar would now not bless the stealth warrior with the sleep he so desperately needed.

Next to him, lying back against a tree trunk, knees to his chest, was Tauredal. He was fast asleep and yet his eyes had drooped to half-mast - evidence of his beaten endurance.

Though Fienngil knew it was probably not the wisest thing to let the younger elf sleep with the concussion he had sustained during the fighting, he also knew that Tauredal had been the one to volunteer to help Legolas on the journey - both the elves were lighter than Maegathir, whose weight needed the stronger Fienngil to hold him up - and despite Legolas' best efforts to remain upright right to the end, Tauredal had had to almost carry him by the time the wretched group hobbled into this camp. Tauredal deserved a rest.

On the other side of Maegathir's inert form was Abrome, lying on his side with his back to the dying fire. Fienngil could not see the guard's face, and so could not tell whether he was indeed sleeping - and yet the prince was somehow thankful for that.

Abrome had taken Legolas' injury particularly hard, and Fienngil suspected the guard believed it to be, in part, his own fault... something which was most likely not helped by Fienngil's admittedly blunt and harsh comments immediately after the attack when he had accused him of not fufilling his duties - a blackened slur on the guard's impeccable record. Abrome had been assigned to Legolas the day the youngest prince was born, when the guard was not much more of a youngster himself. Abrome's father, Ortensil, had been the Archer Supreme to teach Legolas all he knew about bows and arrows - the golden headed elf's perculiar talent with the bow had drawn the two families together even more, and Abrome had become a best friend to Legolas.

Slightly older than Legolas' other friends, and with entirely different natures, it was an odd relationship - but a much-loved one, nevertheless. Legolas balked at any security forced upon him, restrictions of any kind were quickly gotten rid of or just refused entirely... and so, the easy friendship between the pair, established when Legolas could not talk in order to argue, was a comfort to the King. And Abrome had shown himself worthy as Legolas' protector many times over, and Fienngil would not trade him for the world. And he would say this to Abrome... only, not now. Fienngil shifted uncomfortably in his own guilt and wrongness, and his mistake sat unwell in his heart - unfortunately, though, he took after King Thranduil, else he would have apologised immediately.

Finally, Fienngil's darkened eyes shifted to Legolas himself. The prince lay, utterly unconscious and unaware of the world, next to him. They had managed to bandage up the awful hole which had been made in his stomach, but the bleeding had not stopped, only slowed, and a darkening stain was slowly soaking through the light blue tunic that was wrapped around his midsection. His brother's haggard face looked grey and damp, and shivers quaked his limbs.

Fienngil winced as he remembered watching his brother pass out. Once as he first pressed the wadded up piece of cloak to the open wound, in order for Tauredal to wrap the strips of his tunic around Legolas' hips and waist. He remembered the thick blood seeping and pulsing over his hands sickeningly. Suddenly, a rasping cry of pain had come from above his head, ruffling Fienngil's hair, and he'd looked up, startled. Legolas, who had been panting hard since the would-be healers had begun their administrations, had blanched completely white, all colour flying from his cheeks and lips, but red flecks having appeared in his mouth. His eyes had rolled back. He had wordlessly slumped back onto Tauredal's shoulder.

The second time had been even lessfun to watch.

They had struggled onwards since the dawn, and Legolas had been bravely trying to keep up, hobbling along silently with his arm wrapped around the smaller elf's slim shoulder, having to endure constant questions on his well-being (his pride bridled somewhat at this and he had tended to answer rather sharply) as well as the terrible pain his wound was giving him. Tears streamed silently down his drawn face, and trembled to a stop around his jawline, shining and refusing to fall. No one commented - the belly was perhaps the singularly most painful place to get wounded, and Legolas had been dragging himself around rather than been allowed any time to rest: the weeping he could not hold back was perfectly understandable.

Reaching the clearing thankfully, Tauredal had gently set Legolas down, and sat quietly with him, one thin hand on his back, while the shaking that encompassed the prince's limbs subsided.

"Legolas? Are you all right? Friend, please answer me..." Fienngil had heard Tauredal murmuring softly to the downturned face of the younger prince. He'd watched from afar as the smaller elf had reached forward, and gently brushed away the sweaty bangs of dimming golden hair that had fallen into his friend's face, and tilted Legolas' face upwards towards him with his tender hand. Fienngil had not been able to see Legolas' face from where he sat, wearied and almost apathetic with Maegathir, but he had seen a look of dismay fly across Tauredal's kind features, before it was instantly replaced by one of stoic determination.

Tauredal's other hand had moved to grip the back of Legolas' neck in a show of solidarity and sympathy, and he'd sniffed. A hacking cough could be heard ripping through Legolas' lungs, immediately followed by an agonised scream... and suddenly, Legolas was no longer leaning forwards, rather Tauredal was struggling to hold him up as his hurting body keeled over backwards, and he fell into unconsciousness once more.

The remembered scream caused Fienngil to shiver involuntarily - he hated it when Legolas was in pain, and he now genuinely feared for his beloved brothers' life. He rose silently to his feet, and stalked off into the lightening forest: he had to get away, he had to think of a way to get them out of this hell. They had to reach Imladris before it was too late... for Lord Elrond, for Maegathir, and for Legolas. He had no idea where he was going, but Fienngil generally needed to move, or do some sort of mindless task, in order to think clearly in times of stress... his feet took him upon a wandering path and he did not question their destination. He would not get lost - he was a Wood Elf.

Without warning, he felt the trees around him spike up a warning - they shouted and clamoured their leaves and branches together so that even he, a self-admitted dunce of forest language, knew that something was wrong. Looking up into the boughs of the great beeches and the nimphropells and the giant hollies, he squinted at the message their varied branches might be giving him... after gazing blankly at the twisting branches for a single moment, he knew what to do, and what direction he had to travel. He set off on a sharp right at a run, and the close shout that was raised many yards somewhere ahead of him spurred his movements still further.

He didn't know what was drawing him, or why he felt such urgency, all he knew was that he simply_had _to do the tree's bidding, whatever that may be.

Fienngil rounded a sharp corner of impenetrably-wild bracknell with speed, and swiftly ground to a halt when he found three orcs, their horned backs to him, at the thick base of a tall oak. They appeared to be attempting to scrabble and claw their horrible way up the trunk, for reasons Fienngil was unaware of. He could see nothing in the lowest branches.

But, as his sharp eyes swept across the situation, he spied the tiny occupant of the tree, flattened against the trunk on one of the second-lowest branches, quivering with fright and unable to escape. Without a doubt, this was what he'd been called here for. He'd launched himself forward before he knew what to do.

* * *

A/N: I am a review-junkie, so please make me happy and let me know what you think! 


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